Spin the Bottle

I remember when new carpet and a desk were being installed on the first floor. For safety purposes, the patients were moved to the lobby. This lasted for one day. The drama began early on, before the staff had even organized their "command station" in the lobby. A few patients were escorted outside in the early morning to get some fresh air. Austin, a younger patient, climbed over the fence and took off. He maneuvered over the barbed wire with ease and escaped from Building 10. Seconds later he was caught, and this stunt earned him "EP" status: Elopement precaution.

Austin spent the rest of the day in makeshift seclusion. He was "1:1," meaning one staff member stayed with him at one end of the hallway, keeping an eye on A for the entire day, making sure he behaved and nobody bothered him. Food was brought to him, he didn't have to stand in line and wait to be served. Not a bad deal, eh? A few scratches covered A's hands and arms, but that was it.

During the attempted escape, there was a crisis in Building 3. This building houses all women. J, a very large, unattractive female patient, had stashed a knife and was threatening to kill everybody. I met this woman about a month later; she wasn't fat, just freakishly tall and pale. She wasn't even muscular... she was just big everywhere: arms, torso, hips, legs. She had a thick neck and a wide wingspan. Short light brown hair. It took several staff to restrain her; thus less staff were available during the escape.

In spite of a shortage of staff, both events were taken care of, respectively. Meanwhile, back in paradise...

On this day, C.B., an 18-year-old delinquent, was discharged from Building 10. He had bipolar disorder, and his father and grandfather had both committed suicide while his mother suffered from bipolar disorder as well.

Before lunch I mingled with Jonesy (not his real name but a rhyme). He came off as an educated individual. He liked computer programming. He asked me about college, so I told him about college. I recall he fell asleep for several days because he stopped taking his medication and, subsequently, ended up in the LRC.

D. Rudorf wandered aimlessly about the lobby. I watched him walk into the stairwell. Staff hauled ass after him and brought him back in one piece. As usual, K followed me like a dog on a leash. A.N. drooled while he ate lunch and talked to himself. It looked like he was telling somebody not to take his food when there was no one within fifteen feet of him. I played pool with A.F. and R.H.

During the afternoon, I spent a considerable amount of time with D., a level-3 sex offender. He was black, with short white hair and a noticeable demeanor, always pacing the ward, watching everybody as if he were secretly plotting against the staff and the other patients. This man had ostensibly dragged a female tech across the ward and into his room. I was told he would've raped her had staff not caught him before it was too late.

At lunch I sat with D. We talked about his past, his family, and his discharge plan, or lack thereof. He especially liked the food. I found this odd, since a majority of the patients hated the food. Of course, most of the others had been living their lives in the community and some were "entitled" to a nice steak once a year. D had been institutionalized as a level-3 sex offender for a number of years. He was an easy target for the state. His sister had no room for him in her home, he was black, and he was a sex offender, meaning he'd need to register as a sex offender upon release from the LRC. Living in a conservative, primarily white community would be hard for this man, given his status, and so he was shuffled back and forth between Building 10 and Forensics on a monthly basis.

D had an interesting background. He was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. He was known to blow dry his hair obsessively because he believed Jesus was in his hair and Jesus needed to be kept warm.

I wanted to shed a tear or two as he told me about his childhood and adolescence throughout the course of the day. The emotion in his voice was real. There was regret and a touch of underlying genuine sadness. All this man had was the LRC. Other patients bragged about eventually "getting out," but D never complained about his situation. When D was nowhere to be found on the ward the following week, I was worried. I found out he'd been transferred to Forensics, not because he'd misbehaved but because his bed in Building 10 was needed for a patient with a hopeful prognosis, a man who had a stable residence and some cash and maybe a job. From what I could tell, D owned nothing and had no money.

Finally I'd had an intense one-on-one therapy session with a patient that left me emotionally drained. There was nothing I could even do for this man. The "system" had probably screwed him because he was a level-3 sex offender and at a high risk to reoffend. I look forward to the day when I get to see him again and continue our conversation.